


Name Day

by murdur



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, They are possessive and jealous and cruel, and i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/pseuds/murdur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a dangerous game they play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name Day

**Author's Note:**

> I've had an outline for this in my drafts since September. Wanted to finish it for my own ~~name day~~ birthday, I guess a week late will do. 
> 
> This could possibly be read as dubcon, but I prefer to think of it as a common game between them, something they consented to beforehand.

Sif feels the heat settle in her stomach, desire creeping into and clouding her mind. _Magic._ She tastes it in the air around her, a slightly metallic, electric flavor on her tongue. There is only one such person who is capable, who would be so bold, to manipulate her hormones at a time like this. Sif shakes her head slightly and glares at the tall figure standing before her. Loki stands with his face turned up towards the throne at the top of the dais and the King poised before it, dressed in his finest armor, hands clasped behind his back. His green eyes slide over her just once, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, nearly imperceptible

Today is Loki’s Name Day. The entire realm is called to celebrate the honored day for each member of the royal family. And although Loki is not the favored son in the eyes of the commoners, that would not stop them from gathering in the palace to hear the Allfather speak with pride about the dark prince if it meant they could taste the Queen’s wine, participate in the feast that would take place later that night.

And so Loki waits at the base of the steps before the King. Thor, his mother, and Sif lining the steps to his left, and the Warriors Three looking on from his right.

Sif does her best to ignore the wetness gathering between her legs and fixes her eyes upon Odin, trying to concentrate on the voice of her King. Her efforts are in vain however, when she feels another curl of magic pulse through her, straight to her core as Loki ascends the steps to join his beckoning father.

She could kill him. She could rip those stupid horns off of his smug head and run him through with the pointed ends. Repeatedly.

Although the mental image brings a slight smile to her face, it is not enough to distract her from the way her skin currently seems to hum with need. The shieldmaiden shifts uncomfortably. She has been standing with one foot on the stair above her but draws it back down slowly now, thighs touching, trying to gain some relief from the aching between her legs.

Odin must have concluded his speech, for the crowd is now applauding politely. Sif watches as Loki tilts his head towards the assembly in reserved acknowledgement. Odin motions for all to exit the throne room, extending an invitation to return to the palace for the feast in a few hours time. The second prince descends the stairs at a slow, graceful pace. Wishing her fierce gaze could actually cut and let him feel a taste of the suffering she has been enduring at his hands, Sif glares at him. However, Loki keeps his eyes forward, not acknowledging Sif’s presence, nor her glare. But once he is again level with the warrior she feels another burst of heat spark within her, a flare of want and pleasure. Sif represses the moan that threatens to rip from her throat, eyes closing in concentration, her head dropping down. When she snaps her eyes back up, she sees him gliding towards the exit with a wide smile plastered to his face. Oh, she would make him pay for that.

Rooted to the spot, Sif takes deep breaths in an attempt to regain control of her body. She tries to push the thoughts of craving from her mind, but can only think of long hands and warm breath and slick mouths. Sif feels the heat rising on her cheeks when a light touch graces her shoulder. Turning slowly, Sif faces the Queen who appraises her with concern in her soft eyes.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“Yes, My Lady. I am just feeling a little warm,” Sif bows her head and attempts to give Frigga a reassuring smile, despite the embarrassment that now threatens to overwhelm her. _Damn him._

“You do look quite flushed,” Frigga agrees, patting her arm warmly. “I do hope you are not to be ill on a night such as this. Perhaps a cool bath and a change out of those leathers before the feast begins?”

Sif nods in assent before excusing herself to hurry to the safety of her own chambers, cursing the second prince all along the way, already plotting her revenge.

After emerging from her bathing chambers, and feeling back in control of her senses, Sif stands naked in front of her wardrobe. Her calculating gaze surveys the fabric before her and her hand lifts, touching a few garments. The warrior gives careful consideration to each gown, affording all the attentive appraisal she usually reserves for picking out the appropriate blade before battle. This is war, after all. And the shieldmaiden knows better than to enter a battle without being properly armed.

 

* * *

 

 Only mildly late, Sif enters the great hall to join the feast. The lady is adorned in a dress of silky crimson fabric, draped tantalizingly across her statuesque form. The neckline of the gown plunges low, revealing smooth white skin, with a matching V-shaped cut in the back, highlighting the graceful strength of her body. While the fabric hugs the curves and lines of her torso, the deep red of the skirts spill from her waist, flowing against her confident stride.

She pauses upon entering the large hall crowded and bustling with music and chatter. Her eyes sweep up to the long table at the far end of the hall where the Royal Family and their honored guests are to dine, her gaze landing on Thor’s shining head before sliding across to the dark man seated next to him.

As if he felt her gaze upon him, Loki lifts his eyes from his empty plate and meets her stare. She represses the urge to smile wolfishly at the prince, his eyes wide and his mouth parted slightly, and instead drops her gaze as if what she sees holds no interest to her.

The warrior turns, strolling along the outer edge of the hall, where the people are gathered for music and dance. She keeps her head held high, observing as the men and women of the court spin and twirl in synchronized choreography about the floor. She walks slowly but deliberately, the skirts of her gown rustling against the smooth gold of the floor.

She does not travel far before she senses a presence behind her. Sif allows a smirk to pull at her mouth but continues upon her path, not tearing her gaze away from the dance floor until she feels a firm but gentle grip upon her elbow, halting her steps.

Turning slowly, Sif pulls her elbow from his grasp and raises an inquisitive eyebrow towards the prince who stands before her. No longer adorned in his horns, Loki is dressed in garments that are slightly less bulky than his full ceremonial armor, but still accentuate his build and stature. He is lean yet solid and Sif’s eyes traverse the leather draped and weaved across his body, traveling to his high collar and the long line of his neck before rising to his eyes again. She runs her tongue along the sharp edges of her teeth, attempting to ignore the part of her that wishes to sink them into the unblemished expanse of his throat.

“My dear Lady Sif, would you be so kind as to grant me the honor of a dance on this fine evening?” His own gaze has wandered, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin between the soft swells of her breasts before slowly sliding back up to meet her stare. His lids heavy, his eyes are dark pools that make Sif’s gut drop in satisfaction.

“After your offense this afternoon? I think not.”

“I haven’t any idea what you are referring to, My Lady,” Loki straightens to his full height, folding his hands behind his back and speaking to her in a tone of innocent naivety yet his self-satisfied smirk betrays him.

Clenching her jaw at his arrogance, Sif’s blood pulses now with annoyance. With one hand lifting the skirts of her gown, she curtsies towards him, holding his gaze before turning on her heels. “Good night, My Lord.”

Loki catches her wrist. “Surely the Lady wouldn't be so cruel as to make me beg.” Sif throws him a withering look over her shoulder and is met with a face that is not painted with his usual haughty mask; instead his face is open, almost vulnerable. “Not on my _special_ day in front of all of Asgard.”

His smirk at his half-hearted joke is stilted and there is uncertainty in his green eyes. Sif contemplates whether this is just another manipulation. Contemplates how much she cares. She sighs, noticing the curious eyes of the lords and ladies who surround them, pretending not to stare. “As you wish.”

Loki’s features slide back into a confident smirk while he offers his arm. The other couples decorously move to make way for the prince and his dance partner as Loki leads her onto the floor.

One cool hand slides around her waist, to the small of her back as she places her other hand in his. Sif focuses her eyes over his shoulder towards the balconies where the brilliant white and flash of Yggdrasil's branches painting the dark sky can be seen through fluttering curtains. The music starts again and Sif steps confidently with the rhythm. They move with athletic grace, the practiced maneuvers of their battle yard training translating effortlessly into elegant footwork. He is smoke and silk, she is liquid steel, and together they canvass the floor with smooth agility, spinning and gliding in lush arcs.

All the while, Sif does her best to ignore the man pressed against her, feigns disinterest in anything to do with him or his touch. It takes great willpower to disregard how where his thumb brushes the skin of her back sends pricks of electricity up her spine, but she holds her shivers and her tongue.

“So,” Loki breaks the silence, “did you bring me a gift?”

Her eyes flicker to his face, affronted, taking in the slight smirk that graces his face. Sif rolls her eyes. “Is not my presence here enough?” 

“Hmm, no, I think not,” he contemplates. “A warrior of the court’s attendance at a Royal feast is an obligation, not a kindness.”

“Ah, well then you must forgive my unpreparedness. What would make a suitable offering for a prince?”

Loki’s voice is pitched low and he meets her eyes with a level gaze, a challenge. “I do not desire that which is suitable.”

“What would you ask of me?”

As they step together, twirling across the floor in a long circle, Loki moves his face forward until his mouth is level with her ear. His voice is hardly above a whisper but he speaks smoothly, dangerously.

“More than is proper. More than you are willing to give, surely.”

Involuntarily, Sif shivers at the way his warm breath tickles her ear. “Surely,” she agrees.

The music begins to slow and then stop and the pair halts. Sif twists from his arm but he maintains his hold on her hand. She allows him to lead her across the hall towards where the tables for feasting are gathered.

Sif briefly contemplates where to take her seat. Whether to sit next to him, accidentally brushing her hand, her arm, her knee against him throughout the night. Perhaps she shouldn’t even join in with her warrior friends, go sit with Freya and Idunn across the hall, feign interest in court gossip for the evening. She could sit out of his sight among the crowd; leave him wondering to whom she chose to speak, whose jokes she would laugh at.

In the end, Sif seats herself directly across from the quicksilver prince, between Fandral and Volstagg. From this seat, she is close enough that he will have a clear view of the way her long necklace falls between her breasts when she turns her head towards Thor during one of his tales; close enough to still smell the light floral scent perfuming her hair when she tosses her tresses in mock disgust at Fandral’s flirtations. Close enough to look but not to touch.

As she sinks into her seat upon the long bench, Sif flashes the trickster an indulgent grin from across the table.

And then, as if he does not exist, she does not look at him again.

Sif joyfully immerses herself in conversing and laughing with all those around her, except for one. She leans towards her comrades as they relay stories of adventure and glory, placing a hand on their arm in interest or tracing her fingertips absentmindedly across her collarbone when she speaks. She revels in the feast, drinking deeply from her cup, she bites into her fruit with deliberate laziness, savoring the flavor of each bite and licking the juice that oozes from their flesh from her lips and chin.

Only when Thor raises a toast in Loki’s honor does she fix her eyes upon the second prince again, bowing her head towards him and offering a mocking smile before raising her cup to her painted lips. All throughout the night, she has felt his gaze burn her skin, and now that she can see the fire in his eyes it nearly takes her breath away.

Her head buzzing slightly from the wine, Sif cannot keep a smirk completely off of her face, feeling slightly smug and satisfied that she has regained the upper hand, that she has inflicted her own variety of taunting and frustration as he had made her suffer earlier that day.

Her victorious thoughts are interrupted when, for the second time that day, Sif tastes the metallic tang of Loki’s magic. Warily, her eyes slide across the table to him, but the trickster sits upright with his head turned away from her, apparently listening on as Thor entertains those around him with another tale.

Suddenly, Sif feels cool hands seize her behind her knees, yanking her forward until she perches precariously on the edge of the bench, pulling her legs apart.

“Oof,” she lets out a short burst of air, taken by surprise when her torso makes contact with the thick edge of the wooden table.

Bewildered, Sif means to push away from the meal with a shout, but she freezes as cool hands dip under the hem of her gown to wrap long fingers around her ankles. With a tantalizingly light touch, the hands dance up her legs, slowly dragging the hem of her dress higher. The sensation of silk gently sliding across her skin causes Sif to sigh, until the hands stop just above her knees. Sif is aware of a head ducking under her skirts, feeling a warm breath ghost across the sensitive skin near her knee.

Her gaze again falls upon the dark haired man seated across from her. As she watches, Thor’s elbow passes through Loki’s shoulder, causing the illusion of the double to waver nearly imperceptibly.

 _Bastard_ , Sif curses to herself. The mead she’s imbibed during her victory celebration makes her head buzz and the thought of Loki on his knees under the table makes her dizzy. Luckily, his long hands curl under her knees and lift them to drape over his shoulders, stabilizing her.

Summoning all of her well-trained focus, Sif tries to concentrate on the conversations around her, attempts to not let her face betray her with blush.

Loki’s mouth presses hot into the skin of her thigh. Sif feels thin finger tips lightly graze the outside of her lips and knows that Loki will find her wet. Despite the mask of disinterest she wore to the feast that night, Sif can no longer hide how arousing she finds this game they play. Long fingers run up and down her folds, gliding with slick ease while she feels a soft laugh huff across her leg. 

In irritation, Sif kicks the heel of her right foot into the prince’s back with as much force as she can muster without appearing to squirm above the table. At that, Loki bites into the soft flesh of her thigh and moves his hands away from her core to rest on her knees once again.

For a moment, Sif thinks that perhaps he will end this madness, happy to have made her blush and squirm again. She realizes her foolishness however, when Loki’s lips return to her knee, pressing a soft kiss to her skin. He trails kisses up the inside of her leg, moving agonizingly slow while his hands glide across her skin in teasing patterns. His tongue and breath leave a burning trail that matches the fire building in her belly, until he finally kisses the sensitive skin between her lips and her thigh. The warrior tenses in anticipation, but the relief she expects does not come. Loki pulls away, only to place his lips against her opposite knee, restarting his torture.

Sif’s palms itch. She desires to strike him across the face, to throttle him for his arrogance and audacity. She desires to thread her fingers through his dark mane, hold him to her, force him deep.

With a slow realization, Sif perceives a voice to her right, a voice directed at her. Volstagg is asking her a question. Something about a particular blade of hers and she fights through the haze of her senses to answer him. Determined not to let Loki’s cruelty leave her senseless, she is attempting to answer Volstagg’s question, retelling the story about how the blade was forged in Svartalfheim, and given to her on the day she joined the Royal Guard, left as a gift on her doorstep from an unknown admirer when she feels Loki’s warm breath caress her center again.

He’s slow to start, sliding his tongue lazily over her slit, dipping just inside but not quite enough. Finally, he relents, licking a long, hard line up the center of her before gently sucking on her swollen clit. Sif could scream at the exquisite agony of it. With a gasp, her reply to her large friend is cut short. If he notices her strange behavior, her wide eyes and quivering lip, he says nothing, turning to speak with another.

Loki’s mouth is devouring, the warmth of his lips and tongue pulling and sliding in sweet devotion. He explores her with a tender touch, his tongue rolling and rubbing curiously before settling into a not-quite-regular pattern. Sif’s head swings forward at the sensation and she places her palms firmly against the table, spreading her fingers against the smooth wood to anchor her trembling arms.

It takes all her willpower, fierce centuries of honing her self-control, to resist rocking her hips against the rhythm of the trickster’s tongue. Sif is grateful that the thick wooden table affords her a shield from the eyes of those around her, although she would not be surprised if Loki has cast an illusion to avoid detection as well. Sif, however, is still acutely aware of the nearness of her friends and the eyes of all of Asgard upon the high table, upon the prince, on this celebratory night.

She curses Loki again, embarrassment and agitation fighting against a kick of twisted pleasure at the thought of him kneeling before her so publicly.

Yet she can hardly focus on her anger while her body traitorously responds to the man lapping against her folds. With each pass of his tongue, the coil deep within her belly tightens, the tension building. With great deliberateness, the younger prince licks into her, his tongue moving inside with slow strokes. His face presses tight against her, seeking to reach further into her heat, filling her in a taunting manner that is not full enough, and the maiden cannot help but to dig her heels into his back, to meet his mouth and draw him deeper.

He groans against her and she swears, reprimanding herself for being so weak, letting him see the power he is lording over her. Silvertongue indeed, he licks into her again drinking deeply of her nectar before kissing the silky skin of her folds once more.

He returns to a lazy pattern, painting runes on her skin with his tongue. Sif cannot decipher whether he conjures a blessing or a curse. He works her slowly, taking her apart with only his mouth, and she can no longer fight the small writhing of her hips nor the heat that surges to her gut, hitching her breath. She prays that he will have mercy and end this soon, bring her to the release she wishes she did not crave.

At this most inopportune moment, Thor raises his glass to propose another toast. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, Sif reaches with a shaky arm towards her goblet. This movement is timed with a particularly strong suck to her clit. Sif cries a throaty _uhn_ and her arm jerks at the sensation, causing her to knock her cup over, sending the sticky mead to seep across the table and her friends shout in happy surprise.

“Sif!” Thor’s laugh booms. “With coordination as poor as that, you won’t keep your warrior status for long,” he teases. “Are you feeling alright?”

Sif is thankful that Loki has paused his ministrations at the commotion, slowing his tongue, allowing her to speak. “Fine, fine,” she waves them off, aware of how breathy she sounds. “Too much drink is all.”

At that point, Fandral turns towards her, seeming to notice her daring attire more fully after his many goblets of wine. “Perhaps my lady would allow me to escort her back to her chambers?” His leering gaze slides down Sif’s form, quite obviously stopping upon her breasts as he reaches over to place a hand on her silk covered thigh. Sif’s heart nearly stops in panic.

Between her legs, Sif feels Loki snarl, the vibrations sending a pleasurable shiver up her spine. Fandral’s leering grin spreads wider at that, mistaking the reaction as a response to his touch.

Sif spares a glance across the table to the double, seeing Loki’s stoic features contorted in rage and jealousy. Though she would be loath to admit, the sight makes her belly twist with want.

Abruptly, the shieldmaiden grabs two of Fandral’s fingers in her own fist and raises them quite forcefully, bending his wrist at an awkward angle.

“You may do no such thing and if you wish to live to see the morning, you won’t touch me again,” her ragged breath low and threatening.

“I meant no harm,” Fandral attempts to laugh through the pain in his arm. “Sif, please.” Internally, she smiles at the slight shock and resignation painting Fandral’s face. Outwardly, the shieldmaiden bares her teeth at him in response, letting go of his fingers. Fandral rubs his hand, turning his back to her with one last embarrassed glance. Relaxing, she sighs in relief at coming rather close to being found out.

Without warning, Loki’s mouth returns to her with a growl vibrating through her. His tongue no longer teasing, the heat and wetness of it is firm and demanding against her. Both of his hands curl around her upper thighs pulling her closer, holding her captive to his hungry, possessive mouth. He is unrelenting; lips, tongue, and teeth engulfing her in warmth and pleasure that erase all other thoughts from her mind.

Her whole body jerks violently, overcome by the intensity of it all. Scrabbling for the cloth of her napkin, she crushes it into a ball in her fist and presses the fabric against her mouth in an attempt to suppress her moans of pleasure. The pressure is dangerously perfect, a wicked punishment and delight against her and she knows she will not last much longer. In desperation, she attempts to squeeze her muscular legs together, to give him a sign that he must stop or she will fall apart before all of Asgard. But it only serves to draw Loki closer, incite his fervor.

A pair of slender fingers slides slowly into her cunt, pumping and rocking and scissoring within her. It is too much yet never enough. And when she feels him hum in his own pleasure against her, Sif gives over to the sensation, head rolling forward. Her orgasm crashes over her, her lean body arching in a stiff curve, one arm braced against the table. She bites down on her cheek, desperate to stay silent, clenching until she tastes blood in her mouth. Loki continues to lick her, to fuck her with his hands and mouth, prolonging the pleasurable waves that continued to sweep through her until her hips are twitching.

The warrior’s mind is nothing but static for a breath, unable to form coherent thoughts as her chest heaves. The feeling of hands brushing down her legs and the skirts of her dress sliding back into place hardly registers through the buzzing of her head, her body. She can feel Volstagg’s curious gaze upon her, obviously wondering at her thrashing and her flush, but he mercifully says nothing.

Breath returning to her lungs, she lifts her heavy gaze across the table. Her eyes meet the Trickster’s and she is locked into his mischievous gaze. As she watches him, Loki sucks at his fingers then licks his glistening lips. Slowly. Deliberately. Sif’s eyes follow the sweep of his tongue and she feels heat rise to her already burning face. With a wicked grin, the prince grabs his goblet and raises it slightly, tipping his head towards her before taking a deep pull from his cup.

“Ah, my brother has finally decided to stop sulking and drink!” Thor thumps Loki on his back, his form solid once again. “Another!”

Loki drops Sif’s gaze to face his brother, his grin only widening and a laugh falling from his lips. “Yes, Brother. Indeed let us have another.”

 

* * *

 

 Sif catches him in the hallway outside his private wing of the palace hours later. She had stalked him out of the great hall, watched as he deposited Thor into his own chambers, pushing his great, drunk form through his door without much care before journeying down to his own hall.

She shoves him hard, hearing his head crack off the wall as he topples back into it. He lets out a genuine laugh in his surprise which only serves to stoke her ire. Peering down at her, he leans against the wall as if he is bored.

“Ah, Lady Sif. Did you enjoy the feast? I must say that I found the meal to be _most_ satisfying.”

The haughty smirk on his face infuriates her even more and she strikes again. Her calloused hand grabs the back of his head, pulling his hair taut until he bends.

“Is that what you wanted?” she spits. “To make me squirm? You wished to break my will. Your most desired gift on your Name Day was to embarrass me. Is that what you wanted most?”

Not fighting against her hold on his hair, the prince’s eyes drop, gliding slowly up her body before meeting her gaze once more with hooded eyes and his smug smile.

“No," he breathes.

With a quick sweep of her foot, Sif knocks his legs out from under him, causing his long form to slide down the wall. Amusement turns to alarmed surprise on his pale face. Moving swiftly, Sif pounces upon him, her knees trapping him to the floor while she slams her hands against the wall, caging his dark head.

“Then what? What do you _want_?” she sneers. Loki raises his hands, placing them lightly on her thighs.

“You. I want _you_. I desire all of you.” Sif is frozen, her eyes searching his face for a lie. His hands slide up her legs and his voice drops low. “I would take anything, _everything_ you have to give.”

Sif strikes him hard across the face, watching his head snap to the side and blood paint the corner of his lips crimson to match her dress before she claims his mouth. Her kisses are equally as brutal as her fist; she bites at his lips and scratches her fingernails into his scalp. He responds, matching her fury with a plundering tongue and hands that clutch at her hips, digging bruises, to drag her higher. But Sif vows that he will not win this battle, it is his turn to surrender.

She rocks against him until he is moaning against the hollow of her neck, needy. Sif smiles wickedly and reaches a hand between them, palming him through his trousers. He bucks and gasps and satisfaction runs through her blood.

Curling her hands into the leather at his chest, she throws her weight, turning and pushing until the prince’s back is flat against the gleaming golden floor. His dark hair stands in contrast to the gold of the hallway and his cheeks are flushed as she looms over him. He practically whines at the loss of her touch against his cock and raises his hips. Sif sits down hard, pinning his hips to the floor and reaches for the straps of her gown.

Loki watches with lidded eyes as Sif slowly slides the fabric off the skin of her shoulder and down her arm, before repeating the process on the other side, freeing her breasts. Pushing off the floor, Loki sits up to touch but Sif puts her hands against his shoulders and roughly shoves him back down.

Before he can protest, Sif slides down his lap, straddling his legs and reaching for his buckles. She pulls his trousers down to free him and takes him in her hand, stroking lazily before lifting her skirts and straddling his hips again.

She lowers herself upon him, breathes out with a long sigh and fluttered eyelashes. With agonizing patience she begins to move. She leans back, hands on his thighs, angling her hips in a lethargic rhythm. Loki’s hands rest on her thighs, moving slightly with the rise and fall of her hips and the curve of her spine. From her seat, the warrior peers down at him, smiling at the way his head is thrown back, curving his long neck. She revels in the harsh breaths sucked in from his parted lips.

He is begging her to move faster but she does not care, holds his hips to the floor with strong hands and sharp nails when he tries to move against her. She draws it out, rocking in long motions, savoring the feeling of his cock inside her. Whimpering, Loki’s hands move to her waist, to her torso, to her rear, lifting and pushing in an attempt to guide her faster.

With a growl, Sif grasps his wrists and slams them above his head. “No.” She hisses in his face, and her knees clamp tight around his hips as she stops moving. She is in control, she will take back what he has stolen from her.

Sif shoves her breasts into his face, demanding. He does not hesitate to put his mouth against her. Sucking and licking at her skin with his eyes closed in frustrated pleasure, he tries to cant his hips to move inside her again, but she does not relent, remains idle above him. He whimpers, thrashing underneath her but continues with his task, pleasuring her breasts with his mouth until he can take it no more.

“Please,” he begs. Sif grins triumphantly before she begins to move again. The first wicked drop knocks his breath from his lungs. This time her hips are harsh, she rolls her body with quick, punishing thrusts.

With his wrists still caught, she leans forward and nips at his neck, her teeth as brutal as the harsh snaps of her hips. She marks him, draws yelps and shouts from his lips. She licks at his mouth, kisses him but does not let him kiss her back. Ghosting her lips and tongue against his mouth, she pulls back, lifts her head out of his reach and grins wickedly at him each time he attempts to meet her mouth.

Loki desperately whines, pinned, and Sif smiles above him, staring deep into his eyes as she fucks him into the floor. Her knees hurt, and she suspects his leathers are digging uncomfortably into his back, but she cares not. The power she feels watching him unravel beneath her scorches her blood. She drives herself down down down against him urgently, chasing her release.

Finally releasing his wrists, Sif snakes a hand between her legs under the bunched fabric of her gown. The circle of her fingers is delicious and everything is heat and pleasure. Sif gasps against Loki’s mouth, and comes with her neck arching back in bliss. He chases, taking the whimpers and moans as his own, wrapping his freed arms around her waist. His hips jerk and stutter, and with a low throaty growl Loki finds his own release in her fluttering heat.

When Sif returns to herself, Loki is kissing her. Sif indulges him for but a moment, returning the languid caress of lips with a sigh. The warrior tears her lips from his, pushing his face away, down to the floor with a harsh hand.

“I am _not_ something for you to own, something to play with.” She speaks deliberately, menacingly. “And if you try a stunt like that again, I will make sure it is _you_ who looks the fool to all of Asgard.”

He rests his head against the cool floor, scrutinizing her before a mischievous grin breaks across his face. “Do you promise?”

Sif rolls her eyes, unceremoniously dismounting him and standing to arrange her gown. Loki lays sprawled across the floor, folding his hands under his head. She sweeps past him on her way down the hall. “You are a child.”

“Actually, I’m 427.”

“Ah, yes. Happy Name Day, Loki.”

Loki’s low laugh follows her down the shining halls and Sif cannot help her own satisfied smile.

**Author's Note:**

> And look what the wonderful [mescaline](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880313) made for the story! Ah! Go tell him how awesome his art is!


End file.
